


Europe's Most Dangerous Man

by Tunalocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Diary/Journal, F/M, M/M, POV John Watson, Prison Sex, prison!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-05 23:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tunalocked/pseuds/Tunalocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr John Watson has been wrongfully accused of murder and is banged up in cell 221-B with convicted drug dealer, Sherlock Holmes, who has been in and out of solitary confinement for a decade.</p><p>Over the next three years, they fight to prove John's innocence, but when they succeed, and John is released, he'll do anything to go back to prison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. January, 2010

**29 January**

There are fifteen doors between me and freedom. Fifteen doors and fifteen months before my first trial.

First of how many is what I want to know.

I haven’t seen my solicitor in who knows how long. I was on 23 hour bang-up for days for no good reason. For God’s sake I shouldn’t even be in here in the first place.

I’ve finally been allowed a pen and paper and I intend to prove my innocence by telling my story.

First off: I don’t belong here. I know everyone says that, but I truly and sincerely DO NOT belong here. I never knew a Jennifer Wilson. I had no motive to kill her. I’ve never had any motive to kill anyone outside of the military service. So what makes _me_ the prime suspect? I don’t know.

All I know is my treatment so far as been unwarranted and unjust.

It started when police came round for questioning. Obviously I didn’t have the right answers because they requested I come into the station.

My car is still parked outside of Paddington Green Police Station.

I was processed there. All of my personal belongings, including my mobile, were taken from me. My wife didn’t know I’d been locked-up until the next day.

I have yet to see her.

The holding cell had a single bed with a thin blue mattress and that’s it. I had to press a button to alert the front desk when I had to take a wee. I soon learned that I couldn’t wait until the last moment before pressing the buzzer.

Sometimes they’d take one, maybe two hours to get back to me.

I was in the same holding cell where convicted terrorists had once slept. I had two guards escorting me at all times and I still didn’t understand why they were holding me for so long.

From what I could gather, I was accused of killing a Jennifer Wilson at point blank range with a Browning L9A1. Which, I admitted, was the same gun I kept in a safe under my bed. I believed cooperating with the police would maybe speed up the process, but instead it landed me in Hell.

I was cuffed and placed in the back of a police van with blacked out windows. I regret not taking in the fresh air while I still had the chance.

When I arrived at Belmarsh, I was greeted by five armed guards in riot gear. I couldn’t help but think what I had done to deserve such special treatment.

They performed another strip search along with a cavity check. I tried my best to be compliant but at this point I felt the panic sink in. I had tunnel vision. All I could focus on was the next security check point.

Once the primal fear consumed me, I couldn’t hear anything the guards told me. I clenched my jaw and stared at a fixed point on the wall.

I was immediately put in the box.

I lost track of time and space.

The perspex window was my only indication of day or night. If that isn’t Hell, I don’t know what is.

I was recently transferred to my more permanent cell: a single occupancy unit with two mattresses.

I told the guard there must be some mistake.

He took one look at the door number, “221-B. No, this is you.”

“I was told-“

“Well, forget what you was told,” he said, giving me a nudge into the cell. I nearly tripped over the mattress in the middle of the floor. “Hope you wasn’t planning on having telly. Genius here has gone and lost all your television privileges,” the guard said, pointing to the man sleeping on the mattress. “I’ll let you two get properly acquainted,” he said with a wink.

The cell’s door slammed behind me and once I heard the heavy lock turn, the reality began to sink in once more. I am to spend the next fifteen months in a 6 by 10 cell with a toilet, desk, and a convicted criminal not three feet from where I sleep.

There is no telling what the shaggy-haired man has done. I assume murder, but he could have been a serial rapist for all I know.

Last night, I didn’t get a wink of sleep. I watched my cell-mate sleep in the dark for hours on end.

Breakfast came at 8.10 along with a new guard.

He slid our trays through the slat in the door and shouted, “Twenty minutes!”

I debated whether or not to waken my cell-mate.

I decided to let him sleep and placed his tray on the empty desk. However, not twenty minutes later our cell door swung opened and the guard took care of waking him for me.

“Alright, princess, wakey wakey,” he said, banging on the cell door with his baton.

My cell-mate startled awake. He sat straight up in bed and immediately grabbed his head.

“Come on, I have to let you out,” the guard said with a sympathetic tone.

My cell mate rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head.

“Suit yourself,” the guard shrugged.

He went to close the door and I shouted, “Wait!”

He stopped for a moment and looked down at me as if he hadn’t noticed me before.

“A pen and paper,” I pleaded.

“I’ll see what I can do.” His expression had changed entirely. I began to fear the worst, but within the hour he returned with a pad of paper and a pen. “Knock yourself out,” he told me. “Not literally of course,” he smiled.

“Thank you, thank you,” I said, taking them from him.

“I’ll be round later, so you can have your five hours.”

“Five hours of what?” I asked.

“Association time. They’re cleaning the spur at the moment. Don’t worry, we’ll see that you and your friend get some playtime.”

“He’s not my friend.”

“You’re lucky you’re in here, could’ve done a lot worse than him,” he told me.

“I don’t understand.”

“You soon will.”

I let his comment slide and took up my pen and paper. And that’s where I am at now.

* * *

 

**30 January**

Cell-mate still hasn’t spoken. I’m beginning to think he’s a mute. His brain seems to be fried, I’m thinking drug addict. That could have landed him in prison, but I’m fairly certain the high-security unit doesn’t take junkies.

He could have been a drug lord.

The HSU is overflowing with high-profile prisoners. This explains why the shaggy-haired man and I are together. I’m sure that what they’re doing is illegal, putting me in a cell with him.

It’s a bit awkward using a toilet that’s right next to his head.

I did get a good bit of sleep last night. I guess it helps having a silent cell-mate.

I’ve got to say though: his staring is a bit frightening. I prefer it when he’s asleep. When he’s awake he just stares. Not at the telly in the common area, like a normal bloke. He stares at the pool table, like he’s planning on murdering someone with the cue ball. Then it gets me thinking about how you could easily bash a man’s head in.

I guess that’s what prison does to you. It gives you this prison mind-set.

The other men seem amiable enough, just not towards me or my cell-mate. It makes me wonder what I’ve done to offend them.

They’re all murders, drug traffickers, and rapists. Some are even all three.

What did I do that was so horrible? How do they even know?

When I approach them, they scatter in all directions. I tried playing table football and I nearly scared the shit out of one of them.

It’s 20.30 and we’re in our cell for dinner. The guard tells me my cell-mate hasn’t eaten since last Wednesday.

It helps having someone normal to talk to. Inspector Lestrade isn’t half-bad. Of all the guards, he’s the nicest.

There’s a female guard on duty, I haven’t met her yet. Her name floats around though, Donovan. Apparently she’s brutally honest and doesn’t take shit from anyone, which is understandable. I’d probably be the same if I was a female guard.

Then there’s sergeant Dimmock. He’s ill tempered; probably because he’s a bit on the short-side. Napoleon complex.

Anderson, he’s an idiot. Plain and simple.

There’s also Inspector Carter, he’s on his way out though. Apparently guards are only allowed to stay in the HSU for three years before they’re moved back to the main prison. They’re afraid of them getting too friendly with the prisoners. Whatever that means.

The thought of rape has often crossed my mind. I mostly keep my back up against the wall just in case. But there’s little opportunity to commit anything with four or more guards breathing down the back of your neck.

I’m with the “exceptional risk” prisoners. They’re all in here for a reason, but sometimes it’s hard to remember when I see them interacting with one another.

I never expected prison to be so polite.

They joke with the guards; with each other. It’s astonishing how well they get on; when on the street they’d likely be taking turns stabbing one another in the back.

* * *

 

**31 January**

You do get used to the smell. It’s the heat that’s killing me. It’s stale and moist. I’ve been in the same clothes since I got here and it’s killing me.

The shower water is just on the verge of tepid and I get one bar of soap for all of me. My hair is stiff and I’m in desperate need of a shave.

In the main prison they have career services, vocational training, classes in art and cooking, access to the library... it’s a bloody holiday camp! No wonder they keep coming back.

When I get out I’m done; that’s it. I won’t so much as spit on a public walkway. Anything to keep me out of prison.


	2. February, 2010

**1 February**

No word from my solicitor. Why the hell am I here?

A fight broke out in the common area. Angelo, I think it was, didn’t like Bill’s face so he decided to re-arrange it with his fist.

Just another lovely reminder that I’m not on Holiday and this really is prison, and I will probably get stabbed at some point.

* * *

 

**2 February**

What the hell is wrong with my cell-mate? Seriously, what the hell?

He doesn’t eat. He sleeps through our hour in the yard. I’d like out sometime! Hello! Can anyone hear me? Why does this guy get to dictate my life? I thought that was the guard’s job.

 

* * *

 

**3 February**

I was finally let out of the pen. Jesus Christ! FINALLY.

It was cold and rainy, and I couldn’t have cared less.

I ran like I’ve never ran before. I had the wind in my hair and fresh air in my lungs. I felt free. My head started to clear... And then we were dragged back inside.

“That was brilliant,” I told my cell-mate as we were being led to the gym. Of course, he wouldn’t have any of it, and refused to go inside; which meant after I had caught a glimpse of the place, we were led back to our cell.

I regret it, but I said some things I shouldn’t have said and I’m sorry.

I told him I’d strangle him in his sleep, that I’d bash his head in with a pool cue, and that’d I’d do anything to make his life a living Hell for the rest of eternity.

He just laughed.

 

* * *

 

**4 February**

His name is Sherlock.

That is the only thing I learned today.

We woke up, ate breakfast. I went for a run while he patrolled the fences. He refused to go to the gym. We stayed inside. Had lunch. Sandwiches today. Sandwiches every day.

Then we were let out for five hours. I watched telly, he watched the pool table. It was lovely.

One of the guards called out, “Sherlock.” And that’s the only reason I know the dick’s name. He refused a phone call from his brother. (I have yet to call my wife) And now we’re back on bang-up.

Kill me now.

 

* * *

 

**5 February**

No word from Lestrade about visitations. I’d like to call my wife but it hasn’t been “approved” yet. The phone’s right there, but I’m not “allowed” to use it.

I feel like I’m five; not approaching forty. If they tell me to jump, I had better jump. If they want me to strip naked, guess who’s stripping naked?

I’m tired of this.

 

* * *

 

**6 February**

I learned that prisoners cannot receive phone calls. Then how is Sherlock’s brother allowed to call him? Doesn’t seem fair. Then again, nothing is fair when you’re in prison.

I should be getting two visits a month from my wife.

I don’t understand how they can do this when I’m not a convicted criminal. I’m still awaiting trial; yet I’m treated like I’m already here for life.

What happened to Jennifer Wilson?

 

* * *

 

**7 February**

It’s the first time Sherlock and I have been separated. He’s visiting with his brother.

I’m still waiting for clearance to call my wife. She’s pregnant. The baby’s due in March. I just want out of here. I can’t take it any longer.

 

* * *

 

**8 February**

Had sandwiches for lunch. No surprise there. Decided to sleep instead of venturing outside. There isn’t anything out there for me anyhow.

 

* * *

 

**9 February**

Headache today. Didn’t feel like doing much, still don’t.

 

* * *

 

**11 February**

Pointless. Nothing happens to me now.

 

* * *

 

**15 February**

Met with a therapist. Ella Thompson. I’m surprised she let me know her full name. She must not think I’ll seek out her and her family and exact my revenge when I get out. Everyone else seems to think that.

She believes a diary is a good idea. I think she’s a quack, so there’s that.

I told her my theory on the luncheon meat and she laughed.

I did feel slightly better after our hour was up. I felt like she truly believed me, which gave me hope.

 

* * *

 

**16 February**

I heard Mary’s voice for the first time in a month. She broke down into tears for the better half of our conversation. It’s 35p a minute on the phone. Best £3.50 I’ve spent.

The baby’s fine. A little kick-boxer though.

We had a good laugh.

 

* * *

 

**17 February**

I’ve started studying the habits of my cell-mate. There’s little else to do when you’re banged-up with the same man, day in, day out.

He takes his tea with two sugars.

Drowns his eggs in Tabasco. (I found this makes them more edible).

He’s not a fan of sandwiches.

Eats dinner on occasion, as long as the meat is plain (i.e. no gravy). I’ve seen him poke at lasagne before. (We do have that a lot round here). I still don’t know what chicken supreme is but I know he won’t eat it.

Fortunately my army service gave me an iron gut.

“Ok, but seriously, what’s the difference between chicken a la king and chicken supreme?” I confided him one day. I swear I could see the gears turning in his head as he contemplated my question.

I consider it my own form of therapy, talking to a man that can’t talk back.

He’s like a cat. Mostly keeps to himself, takes care of his own needs, not to mention his rigorous grooming rituals.

He’s always taking bird baths out of the sink on the back of the toilet. He spends most of the morning fussing with his hair.

I’ve taken a walk or two with him round the fence. I don’t see what he does obviously.

He stops every once in a while, mentally noting spots along the fence. It makes me wonder if he’s plotting his escape. If I wasn’t innocent, I’d probably join him.

 

* * *

 

**18 February**

He speaks!

I couldn’t believe it at first! But he spoke!

Then he wouldn’t shut up. It was incredible.

I made some stupid comment about the weather and he said, “Noodles.”

“Noodles?” I echoed in shock.

“The difference between chicken supreme and chicken a la king is noodles.”

“Good to know.”

He started rubbing his hands over his face obsessively.

“How long was I out for?” he asked.

“Three weeks, more?”

He grunted in response.

“Do you do that often?” I asked.

“Do what often?”

“Not talking for weeks on end?”

He looked at me as if I was the insane one. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Pardon?”

“Doctor, army doctor by the looks of it. So which was it?”

“How-“

“Never mind how, _which_?”

“Afghanistan... but how?”

“Gunshot wound to the left shoulder, armour piecing bullet. Entered from the back, so obviously your back was to the action.”

  
“Obviously,” I parroted.

“The outer most edge of your little finger’s print is missing,” he pointed out.

“So?”

He smirked. “I can identify a software designer by his tie, an airline pilot by his left thumb, and a doctor by his little finger.”

“Doesn’t seem like a reliable source of information, a person’s finger I mean.”

“I’m never wrong,” he shrugged.

“How long are you in for?”

“Nobody asks that,” he scolded but answered anyhow. “Another forty, fifty years I suppose, it depends.”

“Depends on what?”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. “You don’t seem to comprehend the gravity of the situation we’re in, do you?”

“I’m innocent.”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously, obviously! There you go again! If things were as _obvious_ as you say then I wouldn’t be here!” I shouted. “And don’t you dare say obviously again, or I’ll-“

“Or you’ll what?” he threatened.

We locked eyes for a time, staring each other down.

“Better walk on, the guards are on alert,” he finally yielded.

I glanced over to see four guards had taken an interest in our shouting. We started walking once more.

“Do you think they think we’re conspiring?”

“I don’t believe they _think,_ period. Otherwise they would have never put us together.”

I still don’t know what he meant by that statement.

 

* * *

 

**19 February**

Sherlock Holmes.

All this time I thought Sherlock was his surname.

It’s nice having someone to talk to, even if he is a madman. He does know how to work the system.

He told me to order vegetarian, the food’s much better. He needs the protein though. He could use some more calories as well, but who am I to say anything?

He finally gave me the orientation I’ve needed all along.

Introduced me to the people he knows and trusts and told me who to avoid. We don’t concern ourselves with the terrorists, just in case.

Turns out I’m Europe’s most dangerous man. Can’t wait to tell the Mrs, she’ll get a kick out of that one.

Explains why the trial’s been put off for so long. They’re gathering every bit of evidence against me. Well, they won’t find anything, I’m sure of it.

 

* * *

 

**20 February**

Drugs.

I knew it from the moment I saw him. He’s been in and out of solitary confinement for ten years and for what? A little cocaine?

More than a little, it seems.

In the main prison he managed to sneak in a whole kilo. Before the police found out, chaos ensued with the prisoners.

Sherlock was this close to freedom.

He managed to escape, for a time, only to be brought back into custody on a drugs charge. The only man to escape Belmarsh and he ends up right back in.

Idiot.

* * *

 

**21 February**

Sherlock has cabin fever and I’m paying the price for it.

He won’t stop pacing like a caged animal.

My mattress is stacked on top of his on the bed. I must say, it is loads more comfortable on the bed. My back has been killing me these past few weeks. I’m thinking of proposing a trade.

Sherlock’s back to not eating. I hope he isn’t planning on going back to that “mind palace” of his.

That’s what he calls it. The happy place in his brain. We all have one. I guess his is just more vast. He did get lost in it for three weeks.

The only thing I know is if he keeps pacing I’m going to have to do something about it and I don’t want to.

 

* * *

 

**22 February**

OK, I’m getting bored too. It must be contagious.

He keeps repeating, “I need a case” over and over again. It has to be street-talk for something. Drugs most likely.

If we have sandwiches again, I swear I’m going to kill someone and land myself in here for real.

 

* * *

 

**23 February**

I’ve got an itch I can’t seem to scratch. It’s all in my head, I keep telling myself. My only saving grace is my hour outside. I need it to remain sane.

I have a non-essential tremor in my left hand. It’s been acting up recently.

Madness must be contagious as well.

 

* * *

 

**24 25 26 February... who cares**

It’s all the same shit, different day. If it wasn’t for my notebook... I don’t know what I’d do. I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown, I can feel it. I’m not supposed to be able to feel it. But I can. I can feel myself going mad.

It’s just, everything. It all becomes the same. Day in, day out.

I’m a prisoner. I can’t believe it. This isn’t real. This all has to be a dream. I can’t be in here. It’s so cramped. I need air.


	3. March, 2010

**1 March**

I don’t know what to say.

Something triggered my PTSD. I wasn’t “me”, if that makes sense. I felt trapped, the walls were closing in, and I was inconsolable but I’m back now.

The box didn’t help.

I can’t believe it, but I actually _missed_ my cell-mate. I didn’t even think of my wife in the box. All I could think about was Sherlock. I guess I’ve truly lost it. Not that I ever had “it” to begin with.

 

* * *

 

**2 March**

I spoke with Mary again. She’s fast approaching her due-date. I’d be excited if I wasn’t in here.

I told her I was Europe’s most dangerous man; she didn’t find it funny. She’s nervous about setting up a visit with the baby coming so soon, which I understand. Hopefully after the baby is born we can have our two visits a month.

I want to be there for my daughter’s birth, but I know it’s impossible.

I miss my wife, terribly. She’s been my rock for years.

Ever since I medically retired, I’ve had bouts of depression. Meeting her was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

She couldn’t have come at a better time. I was ready to end it all and if it wasn’t for her... I wouldn’t be here.

 

* * *

 

**3 March**

Sherlock snores. BAD.

We switched beds, but it still doesn’t make up for the fact that he’s a snorer.

 

* * *

 

**4 March**

Decided to order vegetarian. No sandwiches today!

Salad wasn’t half bad. Bits of cheese and berries. I might be a vegetarian from now on.

 

* * *

 

**5 March**

Wish I had google. I miss google.

I miss my wife too.

I should call her and have her google something.

 

* * *

 

**6 March**

Saw a bird today. Saw two birds actually. Crows.

I pointed it out to Sherlock.

“Look it. An attempted murder.”

He laughed.

It was pretty funny, looking back at it.

 

* * *

 

**7 March**

I miss pizza

And sex.

I’d rather have pizza in here.

 

* * *

 

**8 March**

I saw my solicitor. She can go fuck herself for all I care. Too little, too late.

Trial’s been moved forward. April 1st, next fucking year.

Am I supposed to praise her?

A whole 28 days! God bless you!

 

* * *

 

**9 March**

Sherlock seems less bored.

We got a telly.

That’s my life story.

 

* * *

 

**10 March**

Woke up to someone banging on their cell door at three in the morning. I wanted to kill him, but then I remembered murder isn’t allowed in prison.

I caught a peak of the bloke being carried off.

“Medical?” Sherlock inquired.

“Looks like it. Nasty gash on the forehead.”

“Self-inflicted,” he stated before going back to his book.

“ _Crime and Punishment_ ,” I laughed. “Appropriate.”

“Pen.”

“It’s on the desk,” I said, turning my attention back to the action outside my cell.

Lestrade came by to close my viewing glass.

“Oh, come on!” I shouted, giving the door a kick.

I turned to see Sherlock reading with his hand held out, beckoning for a pen.

“What, you can’t be bothered to get up?” I asked, throwing him _my_ pen. He ignored me and started marking the page. “That’s a library book.”

“What are they going to do, imprison me?” he jeered. He let out a sigh and rolled his eyes. “It’s a cryptogram, see?” He turned the book for me to see the faint markings on the paper.

“Chinese?”

“Precisely... good guess.”

“I never guess,” I boasted.

“They’re numbers,” he said flipping through the pages. “On,” he started. “The.” He started flipping through the pages more rapidly. “On the third... floor... is.”

I waited patiently for him to decrypt the secret code.

“On the third floor is my gift to you! Lovely... that tells me absolutely everything,” he said, slamming the book shut.

“Sarcasm?”

“The lowest form of wit,” he answered. “No, this is exactly what I was waiting for.”

I watched as he slid in his book-mark. A fiver.

 

* * *

 

**10 March continued...**

I wanted to know what was on the third floor.

“My gift,” he told me.

“What _gift?”_

“Mine,” was all he’d tell me. “Look, there it is now.”

Just as I looked up, a small cube fell through the mesh net above our heads, and into Sherlock’s hands.

“Shit,” I cursed, looking for guards.

“Don’t worry, nobody saw,” he assured me. “Would you like some?”

“No! Are you mad?”

“Suit yourself,” he said, tearing into the packaging.

“Sherlock! Not here.”

I turned away to stand guard while he vigorously snorted a line.

“They’ll catch you,” I warned him.

“If I left any trace of it in our cell-“ he stopped mid sentence. “Are you sure you didn’t want any?” he asked as he stuffed the packaging into his mouth and swallowed it whole.

“Holy shit,” I remarked.

“I’ve swallowed worse.”

“I don’t... I don’t even want to know. Do I?”

Within half an hour he became so jittery, his eyes were jittery. He wanted to go to the gym, lift weights, run, play badmitton. Of course Lestrade noticed.

“Where the hell does he get it from?” he asked me.

“I don’t know! And I was there...” I admitted.

“Shit,” he cursed. “I can see the paper work now.”

“I mean... what are you going to do? Throw him in prison?”

We both laughed.

 

* * *

 

**11 March**

It’s strange having the cell to myself while Sherlock sobers up. He won’t learn his lesson, I’m certain.

I don’t know what to do without him.

The men don’t approach me on their own; they still believe I’m Europe’s most dangerous man.

It isn’t a bad title to have if you don’t want anyone troubling you.

 

* * *

 

**12 March**

I wonder how much coke he snorted.

He probably doesn’t get it as often as he’d like to.

I don’t fancy starting a drug habit in here. I do plan on getting released after the trial.

 

* * *

 

**13 March**

Maybe Sherlock likes the box. I can’t see why.

It resembles our room, sans desk, but somehow it’s much, much worse. 23 hours of solitary confinement isn’t as fun as it sounds.

It could be for Sherlock.

He’s a bit of a head-case.

More than a bit.

 

* * *

 

**14 March**

I wonder what his brother is like.

Probably rich.

He’s always trying to call.

He must care.

 

* * *

 

**15 March**

I miss music.

Sherlock used to play violin.

It makes me wonder what life would have been like if I’d met him on the outside. I doubt we’d be friends on the outside, but who knows?

 

* * *

 

**16 March**

Still no Sherlock.

Lestrade provides some company. Inconsistent though it may be.

I wonder if he’d let me buy him a pint when I’m on the outside.

 

* * *

 

**17 March**

Nothing to watch on telly.

Maybe I’ll rent a book.

I don’t know.

How did Sherlock figure out how to communicate through library books? It’s ingenious. I’ve never known someone so clever.

 

* * *

 

**18 March**

The days seem to run into nights without someone to talk to.

I miss my cell-mate.

 

* * *

 

**19 March**

Mary had the baby: 3.3kg. Sherlock has probably smuggled more cocaine into prison.

She had a caesarean section, five days ago. She meant to call, but you know how things are. So that puts her at March 14th.

I forgot to ask what she named her. Must have slipped my mind. I think it was going to be Joy, Hope, Faith... I don’t know. Something uplifting.

* * *

 

**21 March**

I finally cried.

I was processed January 16th.

It has taken me two months to cry.

It happened in the shower of all places.

I’ve never felt so alone.

My wife just had a baby; I should be the happiest man alive. Instead I feel sick.

 

* * *

 

**23 March**

I just want to sleep, all the time.

With two mattress pads, it feels like a real bed.

The cell is so empty without him.

 

* * *

 

**31 March**

He’s back. I can’t bloody believe it.

I feared the worst.

Well... not exactly the worst. They don’t have the death penalty here, but if they’d transferred him to another prison to complete his sentence...

I’ve got my trial a year from now. I can’t make it without him.


	4. April, 2010

**1 April**

I told Sherlock about the baby. She named her April. Sherlock shared my enthusiasm for her name.

“I can imagine her in school. Oh, April, what does your daddy do? _He’s in prison,_ ” I mocked. “April... _April._.. it sounds like the name of a girl who’s dad is in prison, doesn’t it?”

“At the very least she wasn’t born in _April_.”

“It’s a fine name, don’t get me wrong. Just not for my daughter.”

“What would you rather she had named her? August? October?”

“Anything but April, Sherlock! It’s my court date... it’s just so... blehck!” I gagged.

“She could have named her Belmarsh,” he shrugged.

“I hate you, I really, truly hate you,” I laughed but he seemed a little hurt. “Only kidding,” I clarified.

Sometimes he can be so touchy.

 

* * *

 

**2 April**

“I wonder what Pentonville is like,” I pondered aloud.

“Not my favourite,” Sherlock replied.

“You’ve been?”

“Twice.”

“How long are you in for again?”

“I told you, nobody asks that.”

“I just did.”

“Life! God,” he groaned.

“Do you mean that in a sarcastic sort of way... or...”

“I will die in prison, OK?”

I wanted to say _“No, it’s not OK.”_ But he went into sulk-mode so I let him be.

Wanker.

And speaking of wanking... never mind.

 

* * *

 

**3 April**

I’ve been thinking about sex a lot lately. Mostly dreaming about it.

It’s hard to think about sex during the day, not with one of the prisoners having a dirty protest two cells down from us. They’ll be moving him to the box soon. He can smear his shit in there then.

Why do some people feel the need to cause trouble? You’re already in prison! Make the most of it. There’s no need to literally go apeshit.

 

* * *

 

**4 April**

Back to thinking about sex again.

It’s been ages since I last got any. I was in a dry spell when I came in.

Terrible thing about prison is: once you get something in your head, it doesn’t come out. It just keeps cycling over and over again, until it becomes an obsession. Just like Sherlock’s bathing. Over and over and over... It’s maddening.

All I can be grateful for is there are no more sandwiches for lunch.

I feel better without all the meat clogging me up. My system feels clear and I feel great.

I get a thirty minute run in, every morning. Patrol the fence with Sherlock for another thirty. And I’m good.

I haven’t been this fit since the army.

I don’t even lift weights and I look fantastic. I think I’ve lost at least a stone and I could stand to lose another.

My wife would be all over me if she saw me.

White t-shirt, maroon jogging-bottoms.

I am sex

 

* * *

 

**5 April**

I am dying.

Every time I pull it out, I think about having a wank.

There’s just no time.

I can’t even take a shit for five minutes without someone walking in. How am I supposed to get off?

 

* * *

 

**6 April**

Mission complete, but I feel like Sherlock knows.

I thought I was discrete about it. Why should he care anyhow? I shot my load into the toilet. He wasn’t in the cell. I could be wanking it right next to his head while he sleeps.

It felt good to get it out of my system.

Though, I kind of want to do it again.

 

* * *

 

**7 April**

Called the Mrs; had a wank after.

I feel like a teenager again.

It’s kind of fun.

Sherlock’s not impressed.

Who cares?

 

* * *

 

**8 April**

Sherlock left a travel-size bottle of lotion on the back of the toilet.

Fuck him.

Seriously, who does he think he is?

I swear he isn’t human sometimes.

 

* * *

 

**9 April**

They moved a new man into our spur. They also moved three men out.

Coincidence? Sherlock says the universe is rarely so lazy.

Sherlock doesn’t seem too concerned about the new man’s presence, so I’m not concerned either.

He’s able to read people and he’s rarely wrong.

Though, he did deduce Harry was my brother. So I have him there. But he did know about her drinking. More than a bit creepy if you ask me.

 

* * *

 

**10 April**

There was a row in the large exercise yard. Thankfully Sherlock and I are contained to the small yard, and had no part in it.

The new bloke seemed to be in the middle of things.

“Gay,” Sherlock deduced as they hauled the bloke away on the stretcher.

“You’d think they’d want a tart hanging round,” I told him as we started walking once more.

“They’ll see to it he gets transferred to a spur with his own kind.”

“His own kind?”

For some reason I took offence to Sherlock’s tone.

“Other homosexuals,” he elaborated.

“I know what you meant.”

He gave me a look like he didn’t see what I was on about. To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure what I was on about either.

“It’s fine by the way. To be gay.”

“I know it’s fine,” he replied shortly.

“I’m just saying...” Hell what was I saying? “It’s all fine.”

We walked in silence, knowing our time outside would be cut short.

“John,” Sherlock said. “While I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for anything-“

“No,” I interrupted. “No, I’m not asking... no.”

And we left it at that.

 

* * *

 

**11 April**

Sherlock apologised for our row about the row. I still don’t understand why I got offended in the first place.

It’s just the way he said it.

Nobody deserves to have their teeth kicked in for being one way or another.

These men pretend to have some code of conduct but there’s no honour among thieves.

Angelo was convicted for triple homicide. Bill Wiggins poisoned a family of four, including a pregnant mother. Jeff Hope, the kamakazie cabbie, killed five people in his spree.

The Golem, he strangles people. Nicest guy you’d ever meet in prison. Crushes peoples’ faces with his bare hands on the outside. I swear he’s at least seven foot.

Kenny Price, killed his sister, Connie Price, the TV personality. Don’t know why he’s in here. Drugs? It’s usually always drugs.

Bob Frankland, he killed loads of people. Used to be a doctor. Performed some unauthorized experiments at Baskerville. Another real nice guy. He’s the one that flung shit all over his cell about a week ago. Yeah, he’s back now. Lovely.

Jonathan Small: he likes to stab people. No reason, just likes it. I believe he used to be a wedding photographer. Would hate to be at that wedding.

Then there’s this new bloke. Don’t know what to make of him. Sherlock’s still trying to work out what he did. All I know is he’s gay and his name is Jim.

 

* * *

 

**12 April**

Thinking about April. She’s a month old. Mary said she’d send a photo. By the time I get it she’ll be two months old, then she’ll have to send another, and by then she’ll be three months... and so on and so on.

She’ll be a year old when I go on trial. If all goes well she’ll be 18 months when I’m out for good. She’ll never remember her father was once in prison. I don’t plan on telling her either.

I hope she never winds up in prison.

She should have named her Hope.

When I hear April all I can think of is impending doom. The Last Judgement.

Doomsday. That’s one hell of a name.

I’d name my dog Doomsday.

Doom. Destruction. Mayhem.

May would’ve been a better name for her. Short for Mayhem.

Sherlock’s giving me an odd look. It’s like he knows I’m trying to rename my daughter with a name fit for a death metal band.

“I’m naming my dog Doomsday,” I tell him.

“I’ve always been partial to Toby.”

He is a funny one.

 

* * *

 

**13 April**

I asked Sherlock what he misses most about the outside.

“Nothing,” he replies.

He would say that, wouldn’t he? The tosser.

Speaking of: I’m up to two a day. Fortunately Sherlock is a heavy sleeper. I wait until he starts snoring.

I can’t sleep otherwise.

I may sound like a bloody pervert, but if you were in my place... what else is there to do?

 

* * *

 

**14 April**

I’m dying for some good telly.

I spend five hours of my day trying not to strangle people (and believe me it’s getting harder by the day). The least the good people at the BBC could do is air a decent series.

Homicide rates would go down. More people would stay in, making traffic incidents a thing of the past. Teenage pregnancies would plummet. The world would be a happier place!

Jim has returned to our happy little common area. Four men were placed in the segregation unit because of him. Our numbers are dwindling by the day. I wonder why they decided to return Jim to us. Normally they’d have him transferred to another spur.

Supposedly there’s a spur full of gays. Wonder what that’s like.

They can’t do much in single cells. They’d be better off in the main prison. Three men to a cell.

Men commit suicide in the main prison all the time. Here we aren’t given half the chance.

I don’t think I’d like it there.

 

* * *

 

**15 April**

According to Lestrade I’m “good” for Sherlock. Whatever that means.

He used to be combative, manipulative, and unruly. He’s still most of those things. I don’t see why I make any difference.

I think I woke him last night. I feel bad. Not bad enough to stop. But I show signs of remorse so I’m not a psychopath like they think I am.

Jim’s said, “Hey” to me. That’s it.

He’s a mystery.

I can’t imagine him killing anyone. Then again, you never know.

 

* * *

 

**16 April**

Saw Ella again. We meet every two months, unless I decide to be stupid.

My mental health obviously isn’t that important to them.

I’m Europe’s most dangerous man. My cell should be separate from the prison, surrounded by a mine field, guarded by the military, with helicopters flying overhead every thirty minutes, ensuring I haven’t somehow escaped.

There are no cameras in the cell. You would think there would be. I could be doing anything in there.

 

* * *

 

**17 April**

I had a strange dream last night.

Sherlock and I were sharing a flat. He was some sort of private investigator. Consulting detective... is that a thing?

He worked for the police. They asked him to look at a body and I came along for some reason. Then we chased a killer through the streets of London solved some serial suicide/murder thing and then went to a great Chinese restaurant.

Dim sum sounds really good right about now.

Funny thing about it... it sounds like something Sherlock and I would do. Chase killers. Solve crimes.

I don’t know; it’s just a thought.

 

* * *

 

**18 April**

Mary’s coming to visit in two weeks. That’s something to look forward to.

I had a proper shave today. Thought about keeping a moustache. Sherlock wasn’t too keen on the idea so I decided against it.

My back has been acting up. Hopefully Sherlock will let me have the bed. It doesn’t make much difference, but it is higher off the ground. I prefer it with two mattresses but beggars can’t be choosers.

 

* * *

 

**19 April**

We’re supposed to be getting 12 hours in, 12 hours out. More like 18 hours in, 6 hours out. I should file a complaint.

They have Playstations in the main prison.

I’m not allowed an MP3 player. I’m still trying to figure out how to kill Sherlock with an MP3 player... maybe asphyxiate him with the cord. Jam it down his throat. I don’t know.

Sherlock thinks it has something to do with the wi-fi capability. If a prisoner could somehow hack into the prison’s wireless internet, they could send messages to the outside using an iPod.

 

* * *

 

**20 April**

It turns out, _Sherlock_ is the reason iPods banned in the HSU. The cock is too smart for his own good.

It took them a year to figure it out. That was back in 2009.

He could probably take down major satellites with the new iPod.

 

* * *

 

**21 April**

We shared the bed.

It felt a bit odd at first, but with two mattresses stacked on one another it was borderline comfortable. He doesn’t snore so loud when I’m next to him. Maybe because I jabbed him in the ribs every time he started up.

As long as we’re up by 8.10 and the guards don’t catch us, I don’t have a problem with it.

 

* * *

 

**22 April**

Jim’s v-neck shirt is getting to me. He’s also impeccably groomed for a man in prison. Maybe he doesn’t have facial hair.

His underwear is usually very visible above the waist-line. Like he’s flaunting it.

I’m not taking the bait.

 

* * *

 

**25 April**

There’s been a bit of trouble the past few days.

Fights mostly. Over you-know-who.

I can see why the men wanted him out of here.

The guards treat us like school-children, although the men around me have committed heinous crimes.

Now there’s temptation in our midst. Jim is so blatantly obvious about it. I’m just waiting for him to be transferred. I don’t want to get caught up in his trap.

He loves stirring up trouble.

It turns out he isn’t even convicted yet. He’s like me... only nothing like me.

 

* * *

 

**27 April**

I wish there was more room to sprawl out on the bed. It doesn’t help Sherlock is gargantuan. I’m practically sleeping on top of him, but it sure as hell beats the floor.

I do wish I could get in my second wank of the day, but I sleep better in a bed.

 

* * *

 

**28 April**

The guards seem to favour Jim. I thought they liked Sherlock. Turns out, only Lestrade seems to care about Sherlock. The guards _really_ seem to like Jim.

Oddly enough, Lestrade isn’t too keen on Jim.

Jim has this smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s a bit off-putting.

Sherlock doesn’t smile, but then again, he’s rarely ever happy. At least he doesn’t fake it.

 

* * *

 

**29 April**

Getting desperate again. I don’t think a wank is going to solve it. I keep thinking about my wife visiting in a few days time.

I don’t want to greet her with a massive hard-on, but I miss women. I miss them so, _so_ much.

Their smell, their taste, their texture. They’re just so soft.

Everything in prison is so rough. I want something smooth.

I have yet to see Sgt Donovan and Sherlock suspects it has something to do with my security status. They won’t let a guardswoman near me.

“Yet my solicitor and therapist don’t see me as a threat?” I inquired.

“Your solicitor was the _only_ person that would take your case. You’re lucky to have her.”

“Lucky,” I scoffed.

“And as for your therapist: I’ve been told she’s terrified of you.”

“Is that why we’ve only met twice?” I smiled.

“I wouldn’t become over-confident.”

“Cocky, you mean.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and gave me a look.

When I leave prison, I won’t be Europe’s most dangerous man; I’ll be Dr John Watson. That is, unless they revoke my licence. I’ll probably sue for damages and wrongful imprisonment. I expect some sort of compensation for the Hell I’ve been through.

 

* * *

 

**30 April**

I woke up to Sherlock moaning. That’s new.

I often forget that I’m not here for real. It’s only temporary.

The others will be here until they die.

I wonder if Jim is innocent. He certainly doesn’t look innocent.

What the hell did he do on the outside?

 

* * *

 

**31 April**

Five more days until Mary arrives. I may steal a kiss. It would be well worth it.

I wet my lips just thinking about it.

14.30, the 5th of May, I’ll have her in my arms once more.


	5. May, 2010

**1 May**

I'm obsessed. All I can think about is the visit.

I want out of my daily routine.

My cell, the yard, the common area, and back again. I'm going numb.

I swear I'll never go to the zoo again after being held captive for so long.

I'm a caged tiger, waiting for a spectator to fall into my enclosure.

 

* * *

 

**2 May**

Sherlock doesn't want to hear about my wife. I don't want to hear about his "Science of Deduction". He's equally obsessed with boring me to tears with thread fibres, perfumes, and 240 types of tobacco ash.

 

* * *

 

**3 May**

243

Nobody cares.

He'd argue nobody cares about my journal.

I care. That's all that matters.

 

* * *

 

**4 May**

I've been banished to the floor. You'd swear we were married.

It doesn't matter. Mary will be here tomorrow.

He can kick me out of the bed and give me the silent treatment. Nothing matters anymore as long as I have tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

**10 May**

I'm a different person. She said so herself. I can't blame prison; I can only blame myself. Maybe I belong here.

 

* * *

 

**11 May**

Sherlock let me have the bed. He's on the floor tonight.

I can't sleep and this time it isn't because of his snoring.

It's what Mary said.

My DNA was on Jennifer Wilson. Not just on her, in her. I don't know what to say; I still don't. Am I losing my mind?

There were others too. Not just Mrs Wilson. A police officer was murdered at the scene as well. He was the one that was supposedly shot with my gun. Jennifer Wilson, it turns out, had her face smashed in with a hammer. I was under the impression she was shot, point blank.

God, I wish she had never told me. Now I know too much. There's no way I can stand trial knowing my DNA was inside of a woman I’ve never met.

Worst of all, I could see doubt in Mary's eyes.

No, no. I take that back. The worst part was when I first saw her.

She looked so frightened, yet I still grabbed her and whispered in her ear, "I want you so bad."

God, what was I thinking?

The CCTV cameras were everywhere; the guards were within hearing distance. I had to be pulled away from her, I wasn't about to let go. They sat us across from one another. I held on to her hand with a vice grip. I convinced myself they weren't taking her from me, that they couldn't.

One hour wasn't going to be enough; no time on Earth was going to be enough.

I just wanted to touch her; moreover, I wanted her to touch me.

Then she told me, "We haven't much time."

I agreed with her (for other reasons) but then she started talking about the trial, what the police told her, and what she's discovered on her own.

Autopsy reports.

I couldn't believe it. We know people at Bart's. Mike Stamford and I went to school together; he teaches there now.

Molly Hooper, a registrar by the sounds of it, was on duty that night in the morgue. From the way Mary described her, Miss Hooper can't keep her mouth shut for two seconds. Hooper told Stamford who told Mary who told me that Mrs Wilson suffered blunt force trauma to the skull before having her face bashed-in. Likely by a hammer; a hammer they have yet to find.

Then there was the police officer, which I didn't know existed until Mary told me. He came round, (heard screaming perhaps?) popped in to check on things, and was shot in the chest.

Funny thing is, the bullet was never found either. However, they did find a gun at the crime scene. MY gun. Of course it has my prints on it, because like I said, it's _my_ gun.

I've been framed. Pure and simple.

But who would set me up? Why?

 

* * *

 

**12 May**

Sherlock wasn't surprised I ended up on 23 hour bang-up after my visit with Mary.

I chinned a guard. One that was pretty high up (in rank), or so I'm told. Didn't get a chance to check his epaulettes before my face was pressed to the cement.

I went mental.

I was promised a full hour and only had 45 minutes to speak to my only piece of the outside world. We never got round to speaking about April.

I should be receiving that photo any day now.

 

* * *

 

**13 May**

Sherlock told me about conjugal visits in America. God, what I wouldn't give.

American prisons don't sound too bad. Wouldn't want to be in South America though. They let their prisoners have guns and knives. Every sentence is a death sentence there.

One bloke was standing in the queue for lunch, had his brains blown out so a guy could have his spot in the queue. Think that was Venezuela.

Torture is legal in Egypt. Wouldn't want to be there.

All things considered, it isn't half-bad here.

Still wish I could have what Sherlock calls "sex holidays".

 

* * *

 

**14 May**

I miss tits, not Angelo's tits, but a nice healthy set of tits.

Mary was dressed like a bloody nun.

The visitors have to be though. No short skirts, low-cut tops, anything... Those are "the rules".

I say fuck the rules.

What does abiding by the rules get you? A stay in prison.

 

* * *

 

**15 May**

Finally broke down and traded for some porn.

I needed wanking material and my imagination alone isn't enough when I need the job done quick.

The guards would make a killing, selling porn to the inmates. They could fund the entire prison themselves, tearing out photos from dirty magazines and charging £5 a pic.

It does help me take my mind off things. Clears my head.

Good for the prostate too.

The real thing would be that much better. It's been so long since I've had any.

You don't realize how good you have it until you’re on the inside.

Telly's not much better out there, but food, clothing, being able to have a shower and shave every morning, you take those things for granted. OK, maybe _you_ don't, (whoever you are) but I did.

I'll never make the same mistake again. I promise I'll appreciate life on the outside.

I've made a list of things I'll do once I'm out:

1)    My wife (many, many times)

2)    Spoil my daughter rotten

3)    Eat and eat and eat; then eat some more. Curry, pizza, Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese, everythingese.

4)    Shave everything but my head and eyebrows.

5)    Edit and publish my story

6)    Have a TV series all about me. Feature films. Merchandising. (OK maybe not the merchandising)

7)    Find a way to get Sherlock out.

8)    Start a detective agency

9)    Solve crimes

10) Stop innocent people from being arrested

11) See to it the man who framed me is brought to justice or bury a bullet in his brain trying.

* * *

 

**16 May**

I realise now my journal has turned into somewhat of one big, long sexual rant. If only you knew what it's like.

Outside these walls there are so many distractions from one's own primal urges.

Out there they have their jobs, their kids, their computers, their shopping, their holidays, etc... In here it's: sleep, eat, drink, shit, masturbate, urinate; all in one room.

Your mind rots in prison until you become a shell of a person.

 

* * *

 

**17 May**

Sherlock got a deck of cards. We're already running out of games to play.

We're banged-up together today. They're moving prisoners, performing inspections, and readying our new cell.

They have to insure it is "Sherlock-proof" and drug-free.

Last time Sherlock switched cells, a stash was waiting for him: inside the telly.

I'm surprised we're even allowed a television. We're not exactly a well-behaved pair, but Lestrade takes pity on us. He's the one that gave Sherlock the cards.

I wonder if they'll keep Jim in the spur. The max we can have is 12 prisoners (13 including me) With Jim, the guard to prisoner ratio changed: one guard for every two prisoners.

Rumour has it two of the men in our spur are a threat to our national security. I get the sinking feeling they're talking about me. But who else?

 

* * *

 

**18 May**

We moved into our cell yesterday, passed inspection on the old one.

"Love the new view," I told Sherlock. He only grunted in response. I noticed the detached sink and chair for the desk. "This must be the deluxe suite."

I was going to point out the fresh coat of cheery yellow paint but Sherlock plopped onto the bed and immediately started sulking.

"I need some," he pouted.

"Don't we all?" I replied, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

We have the end cell, which is nice I suppose. I think there's more room in here but I might be imagining it.

I've kept the additional mattress on the floor for the time being.

I hear in the main prison the three-person cell isn't much larger. I often wonder, if Sherlock and I were in the main prison, who our third cell-mate would be.

I don't like anyone in prison except Sherlock. I don't think I could share a cell with anyone else.

* * *

 

**19 May**

I don't know if I should be saying this but my cell-mate needs bigger underwear. It's skin tight on him and it's kind of hard not to notice when you share a 6 by 10 room with the man.

I give him plenty of privacy; I'm just saying for his own sake. He wouldn't want Jim seeing that.

 

* * *

 

**20 May**

It's been unusually hot the past few days and the window barely opens a crack. We need some rain to come in to cool things off.

I've started taking bird baths as well.

I soak my shirt in water at night so I can stand the heat. It doesn't help that Sherlock radiates warmth in his sleep.

It's miserable.

 

* * *

 

**21 May**

My shirt is see-through and clings to my body. Jim noticed.

He's been making snide remarks about Sherlock and me behind our backs. He's starting to get the guards involved.

He's just jealous because he wants a cell-mate so he can have a live-in boyfriend.

 

* * *

 

**25 May**

The past few days have been absolute madness. I can't believe this new inmate. I'd call him a man but he is the most inhuman man I've ever met.

Charles Augustus Magnussen.

The name alone makes my skin crawl.

He owns some big name newspapers, ones I've never cared to read, but ones Sherlock is fascinated with.

Magnussen is another non-convicted prisoner. However, Sherlock says he'll be out in three months time when his trial is over.

"So he's innocent?" I asked.

"No, he's entirely guilty. But, they'll never find anything in Appledore's vaults."

"Why not?"

"It's all up here," Sherlock said, tapping on his temple.

"That's impossible," I remarked. "He has no proof for his stories then."

"They have no proof to convict him either."

Part of me is grateful he won't be staying with us long. He gives us both the creeps. Sherlock isn't easily unnerved but Magnussen crosses the line into beyond socially unacceptable.

He'll stand in your way and just smile at you and every time you step aside, he'll block your path.

"My apologies," he'll say.

I've never seen Sherlock so bewildered. He's formed a nervous twitch in Magnussen's presence.

I've seen him flick the back of Sherlock's ears, as he walks by. I'm waiting for him to do it again so I can break his bloody fingers in two.

It'd be worth a stay in the box, just to wipe the smug grin off his face.

Even Jim doesn't like him. He keeps his head down like a beaten puppy whenever he’s nearby.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not Jim's number 1 fan, I mean the bloke is pretty fucked up in the head, but I'd rather deal with him than this wolf in sheep's clothing.

 

* * *

 

**26 May**

Magnussen refers to Sherlock as my wife. It took me a while to realise what he was saying with that Danish accent. He's always asking about "my new wife". Calling her a pretty thing.

"Yum-yum," he said as he licked his lips. Then I noticed he was looking at Sherlock when he said it.

I was so angry I started shaking. Fortunately Lestrade was there to defuse the situation. I was going to kill him. I was actually going to kill him, with my own bare hands.

 

* * *

 

**27 May**

I can see Sherlock withdrawing, mentally. I don't know what to do for him. He's being tortured and there's nothing the guards can do.

Magnussen hasn't done anything wrong.

His power is just _perceived_ power. Sherlock says he's only powerful because people believe he's powerful.

There are two guards per prisoner now and I've noticed a few packing heat.

I've been trying to keep calm but I'm getting paranoid. Eight guards and four of us.

I'm starting to miss Bill and Angelo's petty fights. The Golem's laugh. The cabbie and his card tricks...

I don't miss Bob Frankland and his shit, though. That guy can jump on a land mine for all I care.

Then again, I'd rather have that nutter over Magnussen. There are so few of us in the spur, there's no buffer room for Sherlock and me to live out our lives in peace. All attention is on us. We're the ones under the microscope 24/7.

 

* * *

 

**28 May**

Jim's moved closer to us in the common area. Safety in numbers I suppose. Magnussen circles us like a shark. He stares at us with his cold, dead eyes as he makes another pass.

We can't speak, in fear he'll jump in.

He says things that haunt me in my sleep. He knows my real wife's name, where we live, the colour of our old car…

He doesn't know about April though. I've hidden her picture just in case, along with the letter from my wife. _My real wife._

He likes to wander into any open cell.

We can't hide from him.

 

* * *

 

**29 May**

He licked Jim.

He went up to him and licked his face.

I guess that means he owns him?

I saw a flare in Jim's dark eyes. A murderous flare.

Neither of them are mentally well.

My money is on Jim though.

Magnussen lacks class. Everyone truly hates him. Jim at least has the guards on his side.

 

* * *

 

**30 May**

Sherlock has stopped talking, even to me.

I'm alone once more.

He goes through the motions of living but he's completely withdrawn to the recesses of his mind palace.

How long will this stay be? 2? 3 weeks?

I wish there was a way to comfort him, ease him out of it.

 

* * *

 

**31 May**

We all must look dead inside. The guards have given us an hour of association time without Magnussen.

It's like we're living out a nightmare.

Jim's anxious. I don't think he anticipated being in such a small group. There's no one left to manipulate. He's getting bored and bad things happen when clever minds get bored.


	6. June, 2010

**1 June**

Mary has agreed to another visit; without the baby.

I'll never get to see my daughter at this rate.

I told her about Magnussen.

She says "Hang in there."

That's what I get, marrying a cat-person: a silly cat poster saying.

 

* * *

 

**2 June**

Sherlock has been having trouble sleeping at night.

He's still silent and mostly unresponsive.

I help him with his hair. It's the least I can do. I have no idea how to twist and diffuse, but taming his errant curls isn't as hard as he makes it sound.

He just sits on the edge of the bed, moping, while I fix his hair.

"He'll be out of here soon," I assure him.

It seems I'm the only sane person left in the spur.

 

* * *

 

**3 June**

Interesting night... That's all I'll say

 

* * *

 

**4 June**

Jim has murder on the brain. You can literally see it in his eyes. A little demented sparkle touches them when he thinks about it.

Mostly he just sits there, gritting his teeth.

Magnussen loves to pick on him now that Sherlock has mentally checked out.

It'd be fun to watch if I wasn't so involved. Any moment Magnussen could turn on me.

I wonder why he isn't afraid of me.

Jim doesn't seem to mind my reputation either.

Everyone else does.

 

* * *

 

**5 June**

Another strange night, followed by an even stranger day.

Jim had such a smile on his face. It was twisted, demented even.

Magnussen smiled right back at him, but I could tell he was nervous by the way his hands were sweating (more than usual).

I can't believe Sherlock missed it. He just sits, slumped in a chair, waiting to be brought back to his cell.

"I will burn you," Jim threatened. "I will burn the heart out of you."

"My dear boy," he chuckled. "I don't have one!"

Jim just sat there and smiled up at him. He even batted his eyelashes at him.

I desperately want to know what Jim is planning.

 

* * *

 

**6 June**

Just like that, he's gone.

Overnight it seems.

"Sherlock," I said, shaking him by the shoulders. "Snap out of it! He's gone!"

I slapped him across the face, still nothing.

"Magnussen is gone!"

It was just the three of us in the common area.

Jim was in high spirits, whistling an old Bee Gees song.

I want to know how he did it!

 

* * *

 

**7 June**

Alright, I don't know if I'm dreaming or what, but for the past few nights I've been having these lucid sexual fantasies. It's to the point I can't share a bed with Sherlock.

It's embarrassing.

All I can say is a certain someone has been the star of each and every one and it's making me uncomfortable.

 

* * *

 

**8 June**

Mary will be here in 4 days. I won't make the same mistakes I did last time.

My number 1 priority is to talk about April. (My daughter, not the month)

I want pictures now that Magnussen is out of the way.

God bless Jim.

I never thought I'd say it, but God bless him.

I want to appear as normal as possible and make her feel comfortable. When I'm out, next year, I want us to pick up where we left off. Of course, we'll have a little one running about, but that's OK. In fact, that's perfect.

We'll get a dog too. One with floppy ears. Some sort of hound, not a lap dog or designer poodle.

I know Sherlock likes Lurchers. I don't know if they're good with children. Maybe a Spaniel...

I might see if I can get a book about dogs from the library cart. It sounds like fun. Even brain-dead Sherlock would enjoy it.

I like thinking about the future. It's so bleak in here.

It has rained non-stop since Magnussen arrived and only now have the clouds started to lift.

Maybe it's symbolic.

 

* * *

 

**9 June**

I can't believe I'm spoon feeding Sherlock. He has to eat though.

He's so far gone it isn't funny. He needs to see Ella. Though I doubt she'd get through to him.

"He's gone," I keep reminding him.

These long bouts of depression kill me, but now I have a good idea of what it's like to care for a baby.

 

* * *

 

**10 June**

I'm back on the bed again. I can't stay on the floor for too long. I'd rather be awkward than uncomfortable.

Sherlock doesn't snore when he's in his mind palace. Maybe he doesn't sleep.

 

* * *

 

**11 June**

Did my best not to do anything stupid the day before Mary arrives.

They brought in fresh prisoners today. Ones I've never seen before. Some of them are real young. Isaac Whitney can't be more than 21.

Jim's excited.

I still don't know how he got rid of Magnussen.

 

* * *

 

**14 June**

I was well behaved at the visit, I'm just struggling at the moment. Sherlock isn't helping.

 

* * *

 

**15 June**

The owner of Janus Cars

Why the hell would I want to bury a knife in the back of his head?

I have no idea.

I wish Sherlock would help.

 

* * *

 

**16 June**

Raoul is more than a bit of flirt; I'm surprised Jim isn't going for it. Then again, just because he's gay doesn't mean he has to be attracted to every other gay guy out there.

Word is Raoul killed his victims with Botox injections. Now he either went through vials and vials of the stuff or happened to have a more concentrated batch. I find it unlikely his clients would sit there while he injected thirty or more vials into their forehead.

If only Sherlock was back from his mind holiday, he could tell me how he did it. I'm probably way off.

 

* * *

 

**17 June**

"Wake up," I beg him several times a day. It's miserable in here without him.

I tried going through dog breeds with him, but he was only interested in sleeping.

"The English Springer Spaniel," I read. "See here, it says here _good with kids_."

Still no response.

"Or..." I started. "We could get a big old mopey bloodhound," I said, holding the book up to his face. "See, he looks just like you."

Sherlock kept staring off into space.

"Cheer up," I told him, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

He's to the point I have to drag him by the elbow around the fence in the morning. Otherwise he'll stay in one place and never move.

He had chicken a la King for dinner. It reminded me of the first word he ever said to me, "Noodles."

It feels like ages ago.

 

* * *

 

**18 June**

April is 3 months old. She's 2 months in my latest picture. She looks happy.

 

* * *

 

**19 June**

Strange fantasies again. I'm not sure what they mean, but I feel awake when it does happen. It's almost always dark. I get disoriented for a moment but then I'm back to sleep like nothing happened.

It's like falling half-asleep with the telly going in the background.

 

* * *

 

**20 June**

I keep a weather eye on Jim, just in case. I don't let anyone near Sherlock now that his guard is down. I don't care what they say about me, they can talk all they want.

I keep talking to Sherlock in hopes he'll snap out of it.

It's been three weeks.

I can't put up with it any longer.

 

* * *

 

**21 June**

I've tried everything to make him talk.

I've even tried smacking him upside the head, nothing works. This is hopeless.

 

* * *

 

**22 June**

There's one thing I haven't tried. I'm getting desperate. He needs to talk.

 

* * *

 

**23 June**

It didn't work. I thought maybe. He was looking right at it when I pulled it out. I was practically swinging it in his face.

I thought maybe, just maybe, seeing me naked would force him out of it. I don't know what I was thinking.

I'm tempted to see how far gone he is.

 

* * *

 

**30 June**

After a month of silence he's back. Thank God.

He's back to eating on his own, rambling, and engaging me on our walks around the yard.

I can't let Mary know what I had to do to get him to this point.


	7. July, 2010

**15 July**

Sherlock says domestic bliss suits me.

He also says I've put on a few.

He's a romantic, that one.

I haven't written anything in a while. I suppose I needed some time to get things sorted. Come to terms with a few things.

I saw Mary earlier this month and I felt so guilty, but I made it through. My wife on the outside doesn't need to know about my wife on the inside.

I feel normal again.

It's strange, but true.

Married life is great. I mean it's much the same as it was before, only now I can finally wrap my arms around someone and call them mine.

It's nice knowing I have someone that's exclusively my own.

We've settled down in the past few weeks. Redecorated a bit. Not sure I'm a fan of the skull painting, but I have my things, he has his.

We've collected a fair amount of books. Mostly classics; ones the library was going to throw out anyhow. They're mostly for show.

We decided the telly was taking up too much space, so we had it removed. It really takes away from our alone time and besides, we have one in the common area. There's really no need for two.

Finally chose our dream dog. Spaniel/Lurcher if there is such a thing.

We don't always agree on everything; we have had our rows, but we've always been able to sort it all out.

Met the new neighbour. He killed his sister's fiancée, stole top secret nuclear launch codes, real nice guy. Joe I think it was.

Wish we had some flowers to liven up the place.

Oh well, we'll be moved to another cell soon enough. Might as well not get too comfortable.

 

* * *

 

**16 July**

Jim's got a new friend. Sebastian. As long as they keep out of my way, I'm fine.

I've been a bit more protective lately; at least that's what Sherlock tells me. I don't let things go easily, like I used to; not after Magnussen.

I won't let anyone near Sherlock. I’m tired of seeing people hurt him. They’ll have to go through me first from now on.

Some may say I'm paranoid, but I don't trust the men in here, not even the guards.

 

* * *

 

**17 July**

I'm beginning to dread association time. It's like I'm playing a game of keep-away.

Just leave him alone!

I don't like the looks they give him. If they have something to say, they don't have to say it behind our backs. I'd be more than happy to listen to what they have to say.

No guarantees I won't knock their lights out, but they don't need to be gossiping like school girls.

 

* * *

 

**18 July**

Sometimes, I'm so afraid of losing Sherlock that I work myself into a panic. I've already lost so much.

Please not him too.

 

* * *

 

**19 July**

I just want to see April.

She doesn't feel real to me. She's just a concept.

If I could just hold her. Would they let me hold her?

* * *

 

**20 July**

Sherlock saw his brother today. He's always irritable after seeing him. It takes at least an hour to calm him down.

Today I listened to his long winded rant while I combed through his hair.

His hair is getting too long. It's difficult to manage, just like the man himself: it's a tangled up mess. The comb is always getting stuck and he's such a baby about it.

"You're doing it wrong!" he shouts constantly but never does anything. He has more pressing matters to attend to, like telling me how fat and stupid his brother is and why he should be in prison, instead of him.

I rubbed his temples until he began to calm down.

"He can't be all that terrible," I assured him.

"On the contrary, he's the reason I'm in here."

I stopped and rested my hands on his shoulders. I was baffled.

"He turned you in?" I asked.

"No."

When he refused to elaborate I let the subject drop.

I wonder what his brother did that caused him to end up in prison.

 

* * *

 

**21 July**

Played a game of strip poker.

I "won".

I don't think Sherlock is even trying anymore.

If it were up to him he'd spend all of his time wrapped up in a bed sheet with nothing on underneath.

 

* * *

 

**22 July**

Colonel Sebastian Moran killed a tiger with his bare hands. Granted, he shot it first.

What a nutter.

He's a rogue sniper, ex-military; shot down civilians for sport.

Not surprisingly, he's a self entitled prat that roams about like he owns the place.

Jim is infatuated with him. I can tell they're jealous of our living situation. Jim desperately wants a "live-in PA" or so he calls it.

He just wants to be assisted, personally, if you know what I mean.

 

* * *

 

**23 July**

I can't help but wonder what happened to Magnussen.

As long as he's out of my hair. Right?

 

* * *

 

**24 July**

Most of the time we're as quiet as mice (Sherlock and I) but last night Sherlock nearly got us caught.

Next time he's going to have to bite down on the pillow.

It's not like he's a screamer but damn... he makes some noise.

I get such a rush listening to him though; I can't tell whether it's because I'm terrified we'll be caught or that I'm thrilled I'm the one that's causing him to make all those noises.

Mary never made noise.

There was the occasional "Ow, that hurts" or "John, you're on my hair" but other than that: complete silence.

We never really spoke about what and where felt good, how much or how fast. In fact... it was borderline boring at times; like a household chore.

Done with the dishes, time to fiddle with the Mrs.

I'm not saying it wasn't any good; it was great. But still...

I don't know.

 

* * *

 

**25 July**

I still don't know.

Mary should be coming to visit at the beginning of next month. We'll see if that happens.

 

* * *

 

**26 July**

Sometimes I just want to hold on to Sherlock and never let go, but he's getting tired of holding my hand while we sleep. He's probably just in a mood.

If he were on the streets he'd be on another cocaine binge.

7% my arse.

He's got a serious problem that needs to be sorted and soon.

 

* * *

 

**27 July**

Greg has the week off. He's got some legal battles of his own to deal with. Let it be known I spotted the missing ring well before Sherlock.

I consider Greg a friend; Sherlock doesn't have "friends". He's just got me.

 

* * *

 

**28 July**

Anderson needs to have his teeth kicked in. He's shagging Donovan, the whole spur knows it (partly because Sherlock told them). Without Greg he patrols with an extra bounce in his step. The cock.

He's a snivelling worm when Greg is here. He's just showing off for Donovan. He's so full of himself. I can't believe the way he treats the inmates. It's like he thinks he's bulletproof.

You know if he calls Sherlock a freak one more time... something needs to be done.

 

* * *

 

**29 July**

Olive oil.

I sold my soul for a tiny bottle of olive oil.

"Extra virgin," I mused. Sherlock didn't find it funny.

I'm waiting for the right moment to use it. It's difficult doing anything in prison. I don't pull my pants down past my knees, just in case. I'm always thinking about the viewing window sliding open right when I least expect it.

 

* * *

 

**30 July**

I wish we had more than one shower cubical. Sometimes I feel like we're missing intimacy in our relationship and showering together would help.

I insisted on showering with Mary even though she didn't like it. I don't know what her problem was. When we moved into the new place she refused to believe the two of us could fit in the shower together. It was a tub/shower combo!

The last shower we had was less than half the size of the new one.

And she always had to remind me, "Don't fool about."

She always assumed being naked together meant I'd become consumed with an insatiable lust; that all I ever thought about was sex, sex, sex.

So what if one or two times I got excited? She should have been flattered; not defensive!

I guess she just wanted her privacy.

Sherlock could care less about privacy, almost to a fault.

I only need about thirty to forty minutes of privacy every day. I’m not like Mary; I don’t need entire weekends alone.

 

* * *

 

**31 July**

Magnussen has been set free. He is suing for damages and wrongful imprisonment.

He’s right, he shouldn’t have been imprisoned; he should have been shot in the face.


End file.
